Jaap boekestein

Jaap Boekestein is an award winning Dutch writer of science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers and whatever takes his fancy. Five novels and almost three hundred of his stories have been published. He has made his living as a bouncer, working for a detective agency and as editor. He currently works for the Dutch Ministry of Security and Justice. His English publications include stories in: Cyäegha, Nonbianary Review, Strange Shifters, Lovecraft after Dark, Surreal Nightmares, Urban Temples of Cthulhu and Sirens Call. Mystery Weekly Magazine and Double Feature Magazine. http://jaapboekestein.com/

Turning off, turning on

“Do you trust me?”

He is the master, you are the submissive. Of course you trust him. Otherwise you would not be here in the dungeon, naked, against the wall, ankles and wrists caught in padded print-leather straps (‘Animal-free’). Yes, you trusted him.

“Yes.”

“Open,” he said.

You open the connection, grant him access to your body and mind.

He enters your brain, installs the brain-app in a half a second.

It is completely painless, of course.

The app comes from MindFet. It is nothing illegal, but it is not... recommended. Most brain-apps comes with a long list of recommendations. MindFet doesn’t.

For a long moment he does nothing. You know he is there, you are nervous, full of anticipation. And he does nothing. Just to tease you.

Finally, he begins. Using MindFet is easy.

Options, Feeds. One by one, deliberately slowly, he kills them all. The newsfeeds, GossipLive, Think&Shop, Weather Now and all the other ones. He doesn’t just turn them off, he kills them. You, his love, can not reactivate them, even if you wanted to. Not as long he controls your mind with that app.

You don’t react at all. Of course not, you are strong, you are brave. No feeds for a while is no biggie, nothing you can't handle. Ha!

Options, Communications. He goes down the list. Incoming and outgoing calls, killed. Mails, killed, Emoshare, killed. Social coms, killed. And a dozen more, all killed. Finally you are incommunicado.

Okay, contact with anyone is impossible now. It is part of the whole play. You are alone, nobody can hear you scream, not even with your voice. His prisoner... Yes, you trust him. Good friends know what kind of stuff you are in to, and other friends just think you area bit eccentric, going totally blank every now and then.

“It is spiritual,” you tell them. “Deep meditation.”

It is, kind of.

Options, Logs. You can get a quick “Wow, this is so hot!!!” in your diary before he closes it. He allows the live logs to keep running. They aren’t interactive and later on you sure will want to relive the whole experience.

Options, Medical. The Internal Monitoring Medical AI, Accident Body-overrides, Automatic Emergency Calls: he is turning them all off - killing them is impossible.

“Are you sure?”

Yes, yes, yes, yes. yes.

Systematically he goes through all the required safety protocols. Warnings flash, he ignores them.

Breathing in, breathing out, deep and slow. Now he not only is your master and her captor. He holds your life in his hands. No all knowing, all present software that keeps you safe. Only him, your love.

It is enough.

Options, Senses.

Vision. Killed. Darkness engulfs you.

Hearing. Killed. Silence, not the tiniest sound, not even the beating of your own heart.

Touch, Smell, Taste, he leaves them intact, doesn’t decrease or increase them. In your dark silent cocoon you will feel, she will smell, she will taste. Yes, you will.

He is done. There is a long list of other options, but he ignores those. He isn’t going to make changes in your brain or body chemistry, no dumbing down, no orgasm boosts, no fiddling the dopamine levels. You are going to get there the long, old fashioned way.

You are ready, all his senses tell him that. Your heart rate has gone up. The endorphin and adrenalin levels are still in the usual range, but rising. There is a start of erect nipples and vaginal lubrication, even some pupil dilation. Swelling of the vaginal walls, clitoris and labia. Elevation of the cervix and uterus.

He turns off his augmented senses. There is no fun in too much information. What he does is art and pleasure, not some soulless mechanism to get all the variables to exactly the right levels. If they want that, they would run some of the shelf Kama Sutra-ware: twenty five perfect orgasms in a row, satisfaction guaranteed.

He walks to the table with the tools, the toys, and he selects the first one.

#

Afterwards they lay in bed, you in his arms. Warm, fuzzy, satisfied.

“Thanks. Love you,” you say. Your vision and hearing were back. You can turn on all other functions, but don't. Just not yet. The only thing you want, is laying in his arms, safe, happy.